For awhile there was some talk about “re-operating.” Goin’ in and cuttin’ out what had grown back. Dad didn’t want that. He didn’t want anyone to mess around with his head anymore. So they just increased the medication and then let him come home. This time he was better for only a short while. He was able to ride his bike alittle at first. He could even make it out to the Bi-rite and come back with some groceries. He was proud of that. He started talkin’ again about all the things he wanted to do around this place and then followed each pronouncement with the phrase, “If I git to feelin’ better . . . if I git to feelin’ better.” We prayed up stairs in our rooms and when dad didn’t get to feelin’ better . . . we cursed god . . . called him a no good non-existent bastard. We turned our misery on each other. We fought and cried and carried on. We blamed one another for everything including the cancer that was chewin’ up dad. We wanted us a miracle so bad . . . we had one comin’ . . . we had never asked for anything. God let us down completely. It was a farce . . . hands together . . . head bowed . . . beggin’ like that.